Silvia didn’t know whether to step into her place or turn around, but her father would never have let her come back if she had. So, she headed to the living room and stared at that young woman who already carried life’s hardships etched on her face in the form of wrinkles and the shadows of sleepless nights. She let her speak and listened as she explained that she had been living with Lluís for ten years. That he had said he wanted a separation, but that she didn’t know how she could manage alone with a five year old girl with mental health problems. She told Silvia that Lluís was a bad partner and an even worse father, and asked whether she had known that the two of them existed before that afternoon. Silvia said no, tears welling in her eyes. They were such sincere tears that the other woman didn’t dare reproach her for anything. She too had been the victim of a deception. They said goodbye, and Silvia promised she would split up with Lluís.
That night she cried her eyes out. How foolish and blind she had been! Now she knew why he had never taken her to his home and why he had insisted, that one time, on going to a guesthouse on Passeig de Gràcia after the afternoon cinema. If he came by the restaurant again, she would tell him bluntly that whatever they had was over, and that he could go find himself another toy. Around three in the morning she got up and wrote in her notebook everything she wanted to say to Lluís, memorising it. She couldn’t close her eyes anyway. The next day she expected a scolding from her father. She was sure he would penalize her.
But the next day her father punished her with total silence. Only her mother placed a hand on her shoulder as she tried to swallow a glass of milk and two dry ladyfingers before going to work. Her father shot his wife a reproachful look, and she understood that she too was supposed to punish Silvia. But she couldn’t and wouldn’t, because she was painfully aware of the blow her daughter had suffered.
The girl waited, both angry and anxious, for Lluís to come pick her up after work as he always did, but that week he didn’t show up. Her coworkers began asking questions, and Albert, who had become infatuated with her, asked whether she and Lluís had broken up. Silvia replied, “It’s none of your business!” and he didn’t insist. Toward the end of the month Silvia began feeling very tired, and the fatigue coincided with the date of her period, which that month refused to come. First she thought it was due to the heat. Then to the distress. And finally she reached the conclusion that she might be pregnant. She could only talk about it with her friend, and when she told her, the friend decided to accompany her to the doctor.
Silvia asked for a morning off, and Enric and his wife, who ran the business, granted it willingly. She had looked unwell for days and wasn’t performing. She had even felt faint two mornings. In the Barcelona of the 1980s, still shaped by Franco’s legacy, the doctor’s visit was far from pleasant. When Dr. Ferrer saw that the girl was accompanied by a friend, he needed no explanation to suspect what it was about. He examined her, and a few days later he showed up at the bar with a letter for Silvia. It was the positive result of her pregnancy test.
That afternoon at work was hell. Silvia couldn’t concentrate on the orders and dropped three cups of coffee on the floor. Enric’s wife sent her home to rest. Everyone was beginning to talk about the girl and what was happening to her, and Hermínia wanted the clientele calm. Mr. Eusebio had already made an impertinent remark, and Anselm, a young man with progressive ideas, had raised his voice at him. She didn’t want any more disputes of that kind. It was more than obvious that Silvia wasn’t well. And Silvia accepted the offer gratefully and left — but not to go home. She went straight to the office where her friend worked, who was just about to finish for the day. She waited for her outside so as not to disturb her, and when Marta opened the door of the building on Rambla Catalunya, Silvia called out to her. Marta only needed to see her to know what was happening. They embraced, and Silvia began to cry.
The next three weeks were a nightmare. After realising she had no other option, she finally confessed her problem to her mother. Her mother wasted no time telling her father, and he flew into such a violent rage that he nearly hit Silvia — and her mother when she tried to defend her. He went to drown his anger in brandy at the bar. He returned in a pitiful state. Over the next two days he pushed Silvia to tell him where Lluís lived. But the girl didn’t know. That infuriated her parents even more, as well as her older brother, whom her father had already informed of the situation.
They considered sending the girl to France so she could have an abortion, but they didn’t have enough money, and in the end they told Silvia she would have to raise the child as a single mother or marry that bastard Lluís once he had separated or divorced his wife. And they didn’t even know whether he and the woman were legally married or where they lived. Silvia’s parents went into panic mode, because as her belly began to round, the whole neighbourhood would find out, and it would be a miracle if Silvia didn’t lose her job. A pregnant girl at the Centre Moral i Cultural was like a black stain on a white wall.
While everyone talked about her as if she had committed a crime and how she ought to atone for it, no one, of course, asked Silvia for her opinion. They debated her future without considering her emotions, and she grew thinner and her haggard face barely resembled what it had been weeks earlier. Her employers at work noticed it too, as did the bar’s customers, and a month after the appearance of Lluís’s wife and daughter, everyone was making guesses about what was happening to the girl. And everyone guessed right, because it was a classic.
One rainy afternoon in September, while Silvia worked at the bar, exhausted, and Albert tried to cheer her up with one of his stories, Lluís showed up. Silvia’s face was so expressive that the customers who saw her stopped their conversations, their domino games, and even their half drunk coffees. Lluís also noticed everyone’s intrusive stares and said:
“So why is there suddenly this silence? Do you all want to listen to a private conversation?”

He’s carrying a six pack of beer in his hands, and behind him, by the looks of it, classmate holding a bag of crisps. Paula feels she’s in the way, yet at the same time she believes she has a certain right to enter the flat that used to call her home. After all, the boy lives there rent free as thanks for the help he gave during the year before Maite was admitted to the care home.
‘How’s your mother?’
‘Same as yesterday, I suppose.’ ‘director called to tell me they’ve changed the doctor’s visiting time and that I shouldn’t go.’
Marc seems satisfied with the explanation, but she feels foolish having to justify why she’s stopping by the place that was her home for so many years. ‘Did you want something?’ he asks, impertinent, as if he wanted her to leave as quickly as possible.
Paula wonders what she could answer because she doesn’t feel like giving any explanation. Maybe Bernd is right? After all, it was her home until she left at eighteen, yet Marc behaves as if he had more right to it than she does. Her mother had warned her that the boy had grown cocky…
‘Since I couldn’t see Mum, I just wanted to spend a little time here, at least, to feel closer to her. ‘
It’s been exactly one month and three days since Maite stopped knowing that Paula is her daughter. She must think she’s someone from the staff, because now she always speaks to her in Spanish.
It had been a grey September afternoon when the sky filled with dark clouds and the five o’clock light suddenly turned into evening gloom. A darkness that strongly resembles that of Berlin, but out of place. A cold wind had picked up, and the thin jacket she wore was no barrier against the gusts that sought her skin and messed up her hair. She walked with a discouragement that was not at all like her, but she needed to delay arriving home, even if the price was getting soaked by the rain that seemed about to fall.
She glanced at Plaça Rovira i Tries and at the café where every afternoon she had had a cortado after walking with her mother. But that day she couldn’t go in and let anyone see the way she felt. She took one of Gràcia’s side streets to reach Diagonal, and suddenly became aware that this moment would etch itself into her still vivid memory and scar her forever. Her mother had left her alone. The most precious and intimate memory, the last thread tying her to the real world and to her lived past, had vanished. Maite no longer recognised her, and to soothe the pain, Paula told herself that perhaps that pale body, with its long, thin hands and eyes that had long lost their colour and spark, would no longer have to endure the recurring pains of the past two years. She had lost her mother, and with her, a part of her life and identity.
The faces of the people crossing her path went unnoticed, and unlike previous afternoons, not even the prettiest fasades moved her. She longed to reach Diagonal, grab her bike, and go see the sea. The sea would still be the constant that calmed her when she had nothing else left. She didn’t reach it dry, because an autumn downpour fell over the city, forcing the unprepared walkers without umbrellas, like her, to shelter under balconies or duck into shops to wait it out. She was already near Plaça de la Vila and stood under a balcony, watching how that usually lively square had lost its typical sound. Where had all the people gone, the ones who, like her, had been caught off guard by the rain?
A tall, thin figure with short hair crossed the square with energetic strides, and her heart jumped. That boy, whom she couldn’t quite make out from afar, reminded her of a ghost from the past she didn’t want to awaken. What had become of him? She made an effort to push away that inappropriate thought. Maybe it was her brain’s trick, reaching for a vivid memory that tied her to Barcelona? She focused on recalling the times she had walked with her mother through Plaça de la Vila, approaching the kids who played football with their friends, carefree and happy. Maite had loved children so much!
She lost track of time contemplating the half empty square until the rain had eased. Her mind jumps. The flat is the price to pay. Paula likes the idea of having an apartment on the coast because she needs to escape the big metropolis now and then, but it crushes her to think she has to lose that little nest of hers where she felt safe as a child. The images of that afternoon blend with those of her present. The feeling of painful loss and the untimely vision of the boy from the Barcelona of her last years. A ghost she had wanted to see but couldn’t have been real.
‘I’m leaving. I need to go shopping and I’ve got exams to mark,’ she says, mentally returning to the present.
‘Fine,’ he replies dryly.
Paula grabs the bag she left by the door and leaves. On the stairs she checks her phone. There’s a WhatsApp from Bernd asking whether she’s already spoken to Marc. She doesn’t want to answer. She takes the metro back, and when she reaches Llacuna she remembers those fleeting moments she had spent with Luke at the Chinese restaurant on Ciutat de Granada with Llull. Like Paula, he had left his country to seek the luck he didn’t have at home, and things had turned out wonderfully for him. But again she pushes away her thoughts to focus on the present and savor it. She has everything now: a husband who loves her, a quite clear professional future, a plan to buy a flat in L’Escala, and a clear mission — to accompany her mother in her final stretch.
The smell of Poblenou wraps the streets on this cool, damp evening. The sewers stink as usual. It’s one of the few things she doesn’t like about her adopted neighbourhood. That, and the fact that it’s not the safest area in Barcelona, with robberies every other day and drunk or antisocial people setting cars on fire to vomit their rage at a society they don’t fit into.
She enters the flat and switches on the lights. Her phone rings again: Bernd asking whether she’s spoken to Marc. She replies that she hasn’t been able to, and immediately he calls. Her husband insists she must kick the boy out of her parents’ flat as soon as possible, and it irritates her. Her mother is still alive, and it doesn’t feel right to leave a flat empty in a city where so many people can’t afford decent housing. She doesn’t want to start an argument, but inevitably the conversation doesn’t go where he wants, and he notices. She tries to calm him as best she can.
‘Today wasn’t the moment, Bernd.’
‘It never is! You’ve told me this since your mother was admitted. Marc lived in your home because he took care of her; now there’s no reason for him to keep living in your flat.’
‘In her flat!’ she protests, annoyed.
‘Your mother isn’t fully there anymore!’
Those words stab her like a burning knife. She knows Maite’s condition, but she doesn’t want to see her as if she were already gone.
‘We’ll talk when you get here, if you don’t mind. I have homework to correct now.’
The conversation ends abruptly, and she feels the sharp silence before the goodbye. It’s Bernd’s usual reaction when Paula doesn’t do what he wants.
Luckily, the exams help her stop overthinking, and in no time it’s almost eleven and she has to make dinner quickly, so she doesn’t go to bed hungry and sleep badly.
When she gets into bed, a sense of unease washes over her. Tomorrow she must talk to Marc, no excuses, so that when Bernd arrives in Barcelona she can say she’s done what he asked. She tries to read a few pages of The Girl on the Train, which she started just three days ago and which has hooked her so much she turned off the light at one in the morning. Tonight she can’t allow that. She sets a timer and an alarm on her phone, but her eyes close before it rings, and when she hears the melody, for a second she thinks it’s already Wednesday. She lifts her heavy eyelids, sees the book resting on her chest, and breathes with relief. She has six and a half hours of rest ahead of her, and she needs the sleep to put her feelings in order.

Between Two Worlds

The metro doors slide open and the three people standing in front of her hurry out. The air inside the carriage is, as always, a mixture of sweat, perfume, tunnel dust and stale warmth that hits her like the familiar noise announcing the train’s arrival at the station. She climbs the stairs quickly, eager to feel the cool air on her flushed cheeks, still warm from the lingering heat of a benevolent October. She still hasn’t grown used to this station, nor to the neighbourhood that once was hers, nor to hearing people speak Catalan, and even less to not going to the place that had always been her home, where she would find her parents—one bent over a crossword puzzle, the other over a sudoku. Old age came upon them suddenly, casting a heavy shadow over a life that had once been grateful and joyful, but which financial hardship had slowly clouded, like Maite’s memories.
Today she gets off at Joanic again, because she likes remembering how, in recent months, she has walked through the inner streets of Gràcia until reaching her parents’ home—hers, in a way too—a place as familiar as it is distant. She has spent five years in Berlin after marrying Bernd, at a time when no one expected her to take such a bold and yet conventional step. Now, back in the city where she had felt sheltered throughout her childhood and youth, she senses that the years away from Barcelona have cracked her vital optimism and uprooted her, as if she were trapped between two worlds without having nested in either. One feels close yet has become routine and prison; the other calls her back, making her feel like a traitor.
With tenderness and sorrow, she walks through the sleepy inner streets of Gràcia, far from the noise of its arteries. The walk to the Jardinets always feels short. The name has never seemed fitting to her—why call a place “Jardinets” when there are no gardens? She has grown used to a Berlin full of parks, grass, flowers and trees, and the name “Jardinets” feels even more inappropriate now. It would be easy to turn that open space into a green lung, if not for the parking garage buried beneath it.
She wants to reach home by passing through Plaça de la Vila. At the corner with Carrer de Gràcia, on a rainy day, a boy from school gave her her first kiss. She likes walking past and remembering the butterflies she felt in her stomach when she saw him, and the ones she felt during the two days that followed that furtive kiss. But today a cool breeze has been blowing since she left Joanic station, and instinctively she looks up. The sky is darkening with purple clouds, and she feels the first drops on her bare skin. The meteorological tears, barely perceptible at first, suddenly thicken and fall violently. She quickens her pace and reaches shelter under one of the balconies in Plaça de la Vila, just across from where Tom and she first felt each other’s lips.
Paula barely recognises that square she has crossed so many times recently with her mother. She doesn’t know why. The square is the same, yet everything feels different. She remembers the day she realised Maite no longer recognised her, and how something inside her tore when she understood that her last bond with her home city had been lost forever, and she would have to return to the place where she still had one—Berlin. That afternoon of oblivion, she gathered her strength and went to Casa Vall in Plaça Rovira i Tries, but she couldn’t bring herself to drink a coffee as she always did, because nothing would ever be the same again. Never again.
Her mind suspended between past and present, she approaches the building where she grew up, knowing she will find it empty because the people who gave it meaning and breath are no longer there. Neither of them. First her father left suddenly, leaving behind a widow with selective memories that her failing mind kept erasing, while Paula could do nothing but witness the irreversible loss. She must fight the dizzying sensation of having nothing but the past to connect her to her own essence. She is alone. Alone but married. That last fact has allowed her to fulfil some of the expectations her parents had for her—or so she believes, clinging to the idea.
She is suspended between two worlds, Berlin and Barcelona, and this bond with her past makes her feel disloyal to her present. The sting of guilt overwhelms her, but a phone call pulls her out of her thoughts.
—Princess, good afternoon. How are you? How’s your mother?
—I haven’t been there today. The director of the care home told me they’d be very busy with the doctor doing rounds. I’m just entering the flat now to see how everything is.
—Have you told the nurse he has to leave the apartment?
—Not yet.
—Don’t take too long, you know the longer he stays, the more settled he’ll be. By the way, I’m arriving this Thursday at eight in the evening. Will you come pick me up at the airport?
—Of course!
—I should get going, I’m late for padel. A kiss.
—Kisses!
—I miss you!
—I miss you too!
Paula presses the phone to end the call and wonders why, having him, she still feels so alone. Bernd brings her flowers and little surprises when she least expects them, listens to all her worries, supports her whenever she needs it. He is attentive, kind, quiet and not very sociable, but he adores her above everything else. And yet she feels lonely. She tells herself it’s just her age, that leaving youth behind makes her insecure.
The rain eases, lightening her steps as she reaches Carrer Apel·les Fenosa. It’s one of her favourites because at the end stands an exotic palm tree planted right in the middle of the intersection with Carrer de Gràcia. She walks down to Bonavista, then turns right and climbs a few steps to reach home. Because to her, it is still a little bit her home even though she left as a young woman to build her own life. She has always returned. First after her internship in Montpellier, once she finished her hospitality and tourism studies. Then came the years working in Provençal hotels, and finally in Arles, where she half-rooted herself. Her parents were getting older, and she was no longer in her first youth. She missed the gentle autumns and bright springs, and she never stopped looking for a way back—back to work in her city, back to the Barcelona she remembered from her youth, a privilege that reached her only in her mature years.
With her half-French heart, work in Barcelona’s tourism sector turned out to be more precarious than she had expected. And yet she longed to make her way in her own home. For a year and a half she visited the Jardinets flat at odd hours to have coffee with her parents. The hotel shifts in Barcelona offered little flexibility, so coffee became a ritual without a fixed schedule, an excuse to listen to Maite and Jaume’s stories and help them whenever they needed it. Eventually the promotion came—but not in Barcelona. The opportunity was called the Adlon, and it was in Berlin, pulling her away again from what she had begun to miss intensely.
After the wedding, Paula kept returning regularly during holidays to accompany Jaume and Maite through that time when everything takes on a brownish tint, like old photographs. Their faces wrinkled, their steps grew heavy, and their eyes lost the spark they once had. And yet her father’s gaze still hurt her a little, because he reproached her for not having children, saying that if grandchildren ever arrived, it would be when he could no longer be their grandfather. Paula did everything she could so they wouldn’t feel alone, and so she wouldn’t lose contact with that city that was both familiar and foreign to her. Familiar because she always returned; foreign because she had to root herself in Berlin as she once had in Arles. But anchoring oneself is difficult when life has made a person a nomad in order to survive.
The rain has turned into a thin drizzle, and Paula climbs the building’s stairs lightly. For a moment, she doesn’t need to take the lift. She puts the key in the lock and turns it. She likes the sound it makes—it feels like a welcome. The smell of the entrance reminds her of what it used to be when they were both still there. The first thing that always greeted her was the scent of freshly ground coffee, because her parents were great lovers of it. Entering and sensing that aroma is a trick of Paula’s mind, insisting on preserving everything exactly as they had it. But today, the smell of that dark treasure has been drowned out by a burnt stench that sends her running to the kitchen at the far end of the flat. The window is open, and on the stove sits a pot, completely burnt and dirty, with the remains of the unfortunate meal. Marc may be an excellent nursing student and has been a great help with her parents, but now he has left the flat in complete disarray. She goes from the kitchen to the balcony and finds it open too, even though she has repeatedly told him to close the doors and windows because she fears burglars.
Her parents’ bedroom is near the balcony. When Paula was little, it seemed a mysterious place because she had been told her mother needed rest in the mornings, and she shouldn’t approach the room until she saw her awake and moving around the house. But that only happened at weekends, when she didn’t leave so early. On weekdays, Ramona helped her get dressed and ready, prepared breakfast, and took Paula to school.
She walks through the flat, observing the many objects she will have to give away, sell or pack. Bernd thinks the best thing is to sell the flat and buy a second home on the coast, where they could spend summers and holidays and recharge with sun. It’s one of the things she misses most in Germany—the brightness and blue skies she rarely sees in Berlin. In winter, it’s dark and cold by half past four, and spring doesn’t always bring the sunny days she knows from Barcelona. And this neighbourhood has nothing to do with Neukölln, where she lives with Bernd.
She goes to the living room, where the balcony overlooks the Jardinets and Casa Fuster, which she adored as a child. Back then, it hadn’t yet become a luxury hotel for tourists; it was a company’s office building. Which company was it? What was it called—ENHER? She barely remembers. She was too busy as a child inventing a world where her home had the harmony and order it lacked.
Suddenly she hears the door and turns toward the entrance. At this hour, no one usually comes to the flat, since only Marc has the keys. Loud, youthful voices fill the space, and she approaches the hallway.
—Hi Paula, what are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you at this time! —Marc says, blushing slightly.

—A la Paula i a mi ens agrada organitzar festes amb els amics i companys de la feina que tenim. Fem unes amanides, jo sovint preparo “chili con carne” que torna boig als alemanys i comprem beguda. Els amics porten vi o quelcom per picar i llavors es crea una espècie de xarxa i tothom passa hores xerrant.
— Xerrant? —fa la Sílvia encuriosida. —La gent no balla?
La Paula intervé ràpidament i aclareix la situació. El Bernd anomena el tipus de festa que organitzen ells “Laberparty” i “labern” és un verb un pèl pejoratiu que denota xerrar sense gaires pretensions ni intencions filosòfiques. Per ballar ja hi ha prou clubs nocturns on els seus amics i col·legues poden anar si volen seguir amb la festa. Els amics que conviden poden anar a petar la xerrada amb gent que no coneixen, menjar, beure i passar una bona estona. Mira enriolada a la seva amiga perquè la seva cara fa palesa una incredulitat absoluta.
— La Paula i jo ens vàrem acabar de conèixer en una d’aquestes “Laberparties”. — Intervé el Bern
intentant atorgar una certa solemnitat al tipus de festa que organitzen generalment.
S’esforça per explicar el tipus de festa de tarda vespre i la Paula tradueix el que diu el marit amb l’esguard fetiller. En el fons és cert que el Bernd no hagués estat l’escollit però sí que va saber convèncer-la per estar amb ell tota la nit. De fet, el destí ja havia fet que es coneguessin abans i per tant la reunió desenfadada només va servir per acabar de fer caure en el parany una Paula ja havia begut suficient. La va voler portar a casa. Era una època sense mòbils i el Willi es va passar dos dies patint per ella perquè l’hagués volgut acompanyar o li hagués ofert el seu sofà perquè la noia hi passés la nit. No obstant, la fortuna va donar l’oportunitat al Bernd que va anar fins a casa de la Paula i va demanar sense embuts si podia pujar-hi. La Paula havia begut força però li va tornar la serenor de cop i volta, li va agrair al Bernd que l’hagués acompanyada i se’n va voler acomiadar. Ell li va demanar un petó a la galta i quan ella s’hi va acostar li va fer als llavis. La Paula no va voler fer escarafalls i li va desitjar bona nit. Tot això ja li explicaria a la Sílvia quan no estigués ell escoltant.
Estan a punt d’acabar-se la cervesa i de cop s’omple el bar i la Sílvia s’aixeca per tornar a la feina. La Paula va darrera ella per pagar la factura i la seva amiga li diu picardiosa.
— Fa molt bona planta el teu marit!
— De la planta no me n’he queixat mai…
— I se’l veu enamorat encara. Quants anys porteu plegats?
— Cinc! Però aquesta separació ens està anant molt bé. A Berlin ja havíem caigut en una rutina
ensopida que no anava enlloc.
— Sembla que li agrada Barcelona.
— Com a una majoria d’alemanys. Per passar-hi les vacances però no per viure-hi perquè creuen que això d’aquí és insegur i poc seriós. No es refien ni dels nostres metges amb la seva visió de que som encara un país tercermundista.
— I no ho som?
— Fa molts anys que visc a Alemanya i també hi he vist coses que no funcionen gens bé.
El Bernd fa un senyal a la Paula i s’afanya i paga per anar a casa.

Decideixen anar a passejar per la Rambla del Poblenou. Tot i l’aire fresc i la foscor de la nit, les faroles il·luminen el carrer conferint-li un aspecte càlid i els arbres s’alcen a banda i banda com gegants que sotgen els pensaments i desitjos dels veïns del barri. Les placetes rodones amb els seus bancs de fusta pintada davant de les jardineres amb flors conviden a seure-hi. Sempre s’hi poden veure els més grans del districtes fent-la petar mentre examinen els vianants que caminen abstrets o els de pas neguitós a qui els cal arribar a temps. Alguns no escapen a la mirada crítica dels que ja han fet la major part del recorregut i als que els agrada comentar la vida dels altres. La garola dels ancians gairebé mai s’ofega amb la remor dels cotxes que circulen i la calor mai venç ni durant els matins més tòrrids en aquest indret del Poblenou. És un petit oasis de pau en una metròpolis atrafegada i plena de fums.
El sopar i el vespre els resulta agradable. Ella li comenta el seu dia i ell li parla del seu grup de Voleibol. Li agrada veure que sap entretenir-se i que ha trobat una afició que no pot practicar a Berlin. El Voleibol no té el mateix gust a la platja que en una pista preparada.
Quan apaga el llum ella pensa que tal vegada el Bernd podria teletreballar i que tal vegada algun dia s’animarà a canviar Berlin per Barcelona. El pis que tenen és de lloguer i per tant no estan vinculats a res encara. De cop una fiblada li punxa el pit. Recorda el compromís que va adquirir amb ell. Viurien a Alemanya mentre treballessin i es buscarien un racó agradable per a la seva jubilació aquí. Però encara li queden vint anys si s’ha de jubilar als seixanta-cinc i no té clar que aguanti tot aquest temps futur que li sembla una eternitat. Fresca no hi arribarà pas a la jubilació, marcida potser sí. Acluca els ulls i es queda adormida somniant que és al metro de Berlin i no troba la sortida a l’exterior.

Sorpreses

El matí del dimarts s’entrebanca i no vol anar com cal. La Paula s’ha oblidat de programar el despertador i quan obre els ulls la claror delata una hora tardana que li fa escurçar el seus rituals. Pren el cafè, es dutxa i surt de casa sense fer un mos ni preparar-se l’esmorzar. A l’habitació encara sent els roncs aguts del Bernd que està aprofitant les seves semi-vacances. A l’escola falla la internet i els exercicis que tenia pensat fer amb els alumnes es converteixen en una improvisació. Quan torna a casa punxa una roda i ha de fer el darrer quilòmetre tot caminant al costat de la bicicleta fins arribar al taller de Ciutat de Granada que té obert tres-cents seixanta-quatre dies l’any. Deixa la bicicleta i va a casa corrents a dinar. Ha rebut un WhatsApp del seu marit dient que no l’esperi que ha marxat a fer unes gestions. La Paula es demana quines poden ser perquè la burocràcia la porta tota ella i de tota manera el Bernd a Barcelona no té assumptes pendents. Dina i s’estira vint minuts per recuperar un pèl d’energia abans d’anar a buscar la bicicleta i acudir a la seva cita. Però no es capaç d’abaltir-se com que costum perquè té un sentiment somort d’intranquil·litat. Ja fa uns dies que el sent, és com una premonició de que quelcom canviarà ben aviat i va barrejada amb un polsim de basarda. Una fiblada al cor la desperta i decideix posar-se en marxa. Recull la bicicleta i s’enfila per ciutat de Granada fins a la Diagonal. El primer tram és tranquil però de Diagonal a Passeig de sant Joan els soroll dels cotxes i el batec de l’interior de la ciutat li recorden que Barcelona no coneix la calma. Uns dies és més polsegosa que d’altres, a primera hora de matí s’hi barregen els treballadors que van a la feina amb els noctàmbuls que tornen de festa i quan plou les gotes apaivaguen l’anar i venir pretensiós dels ciutadans però mai acaben d’aturar el ritme. Només probablement la pandèmia va deixar aquesta ciutat, com a tantes d’altres muda.

En el fons la Paula espera trobar a sa mare com temps enrere, amb una espurna a la mirada que li indiqui que ha arribat un d’aquells moments escàpols de reconeixement. D’aquells que apareixen de manera intermitent i són un encenall d’il·lusió. Però quan la treuen en la cadira de rodes la mirada de la Maite està apagada i és trista. La porta als jardins del mestre Balcells i quan seu al seu costat tot parlant-li dels arbres i les plantes, de cop es gira cap a ella i fa un moviment com allargant-li la mà.
— Tu cuidaràs d’ell oi?
La Paula no sap ben bé de què parla però si li segueix la conversa i ella no torna a fugir a un altre món potser ho esbrinarà.
— Sí, és clar! Vols que faci res especial?
— No li cal res. És elmillor de tot l’edifici i està a un dels millors llocs de la ciutat.
De cop i volta li sembla que sap de què parla.
— La nena potser no el voldrà però si l’arreglés li aniria molt bé.
Albira de què està parlant i la martelleja el pensament que sa mare cregui que no el vol.
— Sí que el vull mare! — reflexiona un moment i s’adona que no sap que ella és la nena de qui la Maite està parlant.
— Segur que el vol! Amb el temps i la calma sabrà que fer-ne…
Els ulls de l’anciana es dirigeixen ara a ella i la fiten directament.
— Se’n va anar lluny, ara no recordo on, però hi fa fred. Lluny d’aquí i de nosaltres perquè aquí no li agradava prou.
La Paula li agafa la mà i se la posa a la cara. Una llàgrima li corre per la galta i mulla la pell eixuta de la Maite. Li fa un petó al palmell i se’l col·loca a la cara per donar-li escalfor.
— No diguis això! Sí que li agradava però potser volia veure món i voltar. I en aquest vol va conèixer algú…
La mirada de la Maite es torna a apagar i a Paula intenta encendre-li amb el berenar.
— Avui napolitanes de crema!
Aconsegueix donar-les-hi totes i li sona el mòbil. A la residència li demanen que torni a sa mare perquè l’infermer ha de prendre-li la pressió. Sospira mig empipada. Arribi a l’hora que arribi sempre li fan entendre que hi fa nosa!
En acomiadar-se la Maite li demana una abraçada i la Paula la té entre els seus braços uns segons que li semblen preciosos. Un cop tancada la porta del centre les paraules de la seva mare se li claven al cervell “la nena potser no el voldrà”. Es refereix al pis, al lloc al que va cada dia per retrobar-se amb el seu jo, el seu passat i el seu present i on sent la pau interior que va perdre no sap quan i que no sap com recuperar.